


Observe

by Anonymous



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Drabble, M/M, hella poetic tho, pretty tame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9863198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Robert Lutece attracts Booker strangely, perhaps like a moth to a light, or a cigarette to the same. Aesthetically attractive, in a way of symmetry and clean fingernails.Clean fingernails.Clean hands(Alternate title - Booker stares at Robert's hands. That's it. that's the whole story. You can go home now.)





	

The male Lutece has spider’s fingers, long and manicured.  
Often folded, one atop the other, dignified. Freckled, mostly unscarred save for the hazards of science and life.  
The male Lutece, Robert Lutece is mostly this way, slim and pale, gentlemanly but a bit fussy.  
Booker observes this over the course of their meetings, observing things is part of the job.  
Robert Lutece attracts Booker strangely, perhaps like a moth to a light, or a cigarette to the same. Aesthetically attractive, in a way of symmetry and clean fingernails.  
Clean fingernails.  
Clean hands.  
Booker’s hands are dirty with things soap cannot fix, and things it can, ragged nails, working man’s tan, shining pale scars under blood and dirt. Hands that can fire guns and swing axes, hands that flicker with hellfire and lightening.  
Dirt and scars you can hide with care, with time, but killing lurks in your spine, your soul, in tremors, tears, you cannot hide a killer.  
At least, Booker hasn’t figured out how. Perhaps the Lutece has.  
Not just him, the both of him and his sister glow of sterility, of unending, laboratory grade white.  
Clean hands.  
The contrast is probably what draws Booker to him but perhaps that posture is hiding something, shaking hands hidden in pockets, weeping behind a mask of purity.  
Booker longs to push the mask away, let it shatter to the floor, let it crunch beneath his soles when he leans to hold those graceful, spider’s fingers for perhaps something deeper, let the metaphorical moth perish in flame.


End file.
